Saturday, November 12, 2011

“A week had passed since Jeck’s death in the ironworks, but it had shut down afterward. ‘To help the investigation,’ they said, and that was true enough, but also because nobody wanted to spend any time there. I can’t say I was all that eager myself, honestly.

“It was well after 11 by the time I got there. The gate to the fence was locked, and nobody was in a rush to open it. I finally ended up entering alone. Not so much out of bravery, you understand; I was too disturbed by the scene in Colum’s home to let things lie. It felt too unnatural, too unexplained, and it was eating at my mind.

“They tried to talk me out of entering, and I only resisted their attempts by the barest of threads. The foreman opened the gate for me and I just about turned back. The grounds felt ... wrong. The moon was near full that night, but the light didn’t enter that place.

“The air felt heavy, though maybe that was just me. And it was quiet, oh so quiet. Every step I took toward the building sounded impossibly loud.

Friday, November 11, 2011

Archerd blinked in confusion. “Worse than having your head chopped off? What could be worse than that?”

His father gave him a grim smile. “Oh, it can be worse indeed. Terrible as it is, having your head cut off is a quick way to go, but we’re getting ahead of the story — if you’ll pardon the phrase again.

“See the problem is that while we know what and who ended poor Jeck’s life, we’ve never been entirely sure what happened to him after that.”

“After? What do you mean after? Is Jeck — I mean — is he ... Is it his spirit that people say they hear?” Archerd could feel himself going pale, though whether from dread or excitement, he couldn’t say. The two were very mixed up together inside him.

“There are many who believe exactly that. There is, however, no conclusive evidence to support the idea, while there is much circumstantial evidence.

“Did you know I found most of that evidence?”

Archerd blinked. “No. I knew you were involved, but not more than that. Was mom there too?”

Altman chuckled. “Your mom was in no fit state to be involved, though she nearly had fits that she couldn’t be part of it. No, she was far too big, carrying you around as she was! I had only myself to rely on, I’m afraid. The investigation was a tough one. I had to work alone. Nobody else wanted anything to do with it; they were too spooked by the circumstances of Jeck’s death and the strange events afterward.

“As I said, Jeck had owed money to a bad character. A new community in unsettled, un-policed land holds a certain appeal to those with a, shall we say, checkered past, and this place, as nice as it can be, was and is no exception.

“They had gotten into a fight ... a disagreement over the results of a bet. Colum Heely was the worst of a bad lot of thugs in these parts back then. I see the name doesn’t mean much to you, and it’s just as well; his sort is best forgotten. I’m sad to say that I won’t forget it any time soon though. What happened to that man ... that should never happen to anyone, and that’s a fact.

“I don’t know the specific details; I can’t imagine anybody does. Those were between Jeck and Colum, and they’re not talking. What I do know is that just over a week after Jeck died, Colum turned up dead too, and there were things about it ... sorry, son.” He cleared his throat, and his face had gone gray, eyes hollow.

“It was straight out of a book of mystery fiction, a classic locked-room puzzle. He was in a housing dormitory, a tiny shack the workmen used. It was a single room, locked and latched from the inside, without a window or other exit. There was a chimney for the fire, but it was too narrow for even a child to descend.

“Colum was inside. His nearest neighbors, 3 of them, all independently claimed they heard Colum arguing loudly with someone else. He sounded terribly afraid, they said, and that was something in itself, for Colum was a big man, the sort nobody wanted to trifle with, and not much given to fear.

“As to the identity of the other, every one of them swore the voice was Jeck’s! I tried to reason with them, one had even seen the body himself, but they were all certain it was him, though none could make out any of the words either had been saying.

“They all agreed on the particulars of the exchange, as well. It went on for no more than 5 minutes, and ended with Colum shouting, and finally a loud, terrible scream.” He stopped there and drank again; his color was still all wrong, and his knuckles were white such that Archerd feared for a moment his father might crush the glass in his hand.

“I arrived within a quarter of an hour, by which time Colum’s room had long gone silent. I had this pocket watch even then,” he pulled a familiar, beautiful brass watch out by a chain, “so I was able to verify the time.” He popped the watch open and gazed at the face for a moment. “Half past ten. Just as it was that night.” The firelight danced across his face with the shadows, giving him an almost otherworldly air, and he closed the watch with a metallic snap, dropping it back into a pocket.

“It took some time for us to get into Colum’s room. As I said, it was locked from the inside like a sealed room mystery, and that is indeed exactly what we faced. Once we did get in ... I am afraid, my son, the sight nearly unmanned me completely. Jeck ... he’d lost his head. Colum lost a lot more than that. The remains were ...” The gray of his pallor started to take on a distinctly greenish tint. “It took us another quarter-hour to account for every piece of him. When Jeck lost his head, it was clear he’d been met with a blade, but Colum, he had been ... torn. Even chewed in places.” He stared blankly at the fire; Archerd could almost have thought his father had forgotten he was there.

“There was blood everywhere, and worse. The thing that stood out through all that though was a black mark on the wall above the stove. The wall was charring ... not charred, but still charring. There was a lump of metal on the stove right by the wall. It looked like it had been flung and landed on the cast-iron. Close enough to the wall to scorch, but not to burn.

“We found more like it in the room, smaller bits that charred the wood they landed on without causing flame. I must confess that after I escaped that foul abattoir, I was sick. Not just physically sick, but sick to the spirit, as well. I found myself entertaining thoughts that were wholly unscientific, but that molten metal had also given me a valuable starting place, illogical as the entire scene had been; Jeck had worked at the ironworks, of course. And at that time, there was only one place you could have expected to find metal in that condition.”

Thursday, November 10, 2011

“And I trust you know of the ironworks incident? You wouldn’t remember it, of course. It was before your time, if only barely.”

“Of course. People still talk about it, especially at school. Several of my friends . . . they have to walk past that place every day. Sometimes at night!” He shivered; the ironworks was a local legend in Dolesham. One of the first large industrial buildings completed in town, before the town even had a name, it had had a proud but very short-lived history serving the fledgling community by smelting the ores that the early miners of the community brought out of their tunnels.

What most residents of the town didn’t know, and what Archerd was sworn never to talk about, was that the ironworks had had a secret purpose. Altman had used it as a cover to process electrite, the rare mineral to which the town owed its very existence. The electrite facility had been very small, tucked away in the basement of the large structure, accessed by only a very few trusted individuals, but it was there that the trouble had begun.

“Is it true what they say, Father?”

Altman’s face was grave. “They say a great many things, Archerd. Some of those things are true, others are exaggerations, still more are either entirely in error, or are outright lies.”

“They say the ironworks is . . .” he gulped, face serious. “They say it’s haunted. They say if you go there late at night there are the sounds of people still working there, and unearthly lights that move.”

“I have heard these stories too.”

“You don’t believe them?”

Altman settled back in his chair and shivered despite the heat from the now cheerful blaze. “It certainly is the right sort of night for a tale such as this one. You would hear it?”

“Yes!” Archerd sat forward eagerly, shivering a little himself.

“Well then, I suppose you’re old enough to hear it. But not a word to your sisters, not until they’re older.

“Fifteen years or so ago, it was a cold autumn, much as this one is. It was darker though. We had storms that year like you’ve never seen, and people to care for. The town wasn’t so much a town back then, but we had miners and construction men, and traders and farmers and medics. The farmers we didn’t have to worry about so much. They mostly lived off in their own homes by their fields.

“The miners though, and construction laborers, they were another matter. Most of them were in temporary shelters, good enough in the summer, or the milder days of autumn. But those storms, and that cold! We put as many of them up in our home as we could fit, but word was getting out even then that we were prosperous and there was good mining to be done. People were arriving and bringing families. We couldn’t house and feed everyone.”

“The head of the construction teams — you know old Waldon Sias, I believe—” and Archerd nodded, “he did his best to accommodate everyone. His crews worked all day every day and into the nights to make sure everyone had some place warm to escape the coming cold and to sleep. And they were able to do it. Every family, every crewman, every miner, every fortune-seeker, every woman and child had a place to stay, if not call their own.”

Altman frowned and rose to his feet with a mild grunt of exertion. “I’m sorry son, I need to wet my throat if I’m to tell this tale.” He left and returned shortly with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Not a word to your mother, now. Not that she’d mind, you understand, but . . . I do have stern and responsible reputation to uphold.” He poured himself a generous glass and Archerd a half-glass.

Archerd sipped the red, sweet light liquid and managed not to cough as it hit his throat. “Careful son, most wine isn’t so strong, but the vintners here can produce some powerful stuff. Take it slow.”

“Now then, that’s better,” he said with a sigh. “Yes, old Waldon was able to house everyone we couldn’t take in. But nothing comes without a price — and don’t you ever believe anyone who tells you otherwise. Waldon’s teams were too busy working on housing, a task of the highest importance and most dire necessity, but that meant they couldn’t spend their time on finishing other things. Things such as the ironworks.”

“But I thought the ironworks was complete?” Archerd felt a pleasant warmth from the wine, and found himself being drawn into the story.

“The initial construction was, yes, but that was just the most critical parts to get the foundry functional since we had started attracting so many miners. Suffice to say the ironworks grew, but through no fault of Waldon’s, it was perhaps a bit more rushed than it should have been.

“That had been in the spring of that year, and it operated well all through the summer. As autumn’s chill crept into the air, all that began to change. The men who labored at the ironworks soon began to complain of strange sounds, much as you described.

“At first nobody paid it any mind. But one day . . .” The elder Dolet paused and drank from his glass, eyes lingering in the depths of the ruby wine. “It became a bigger matter the day they found Jeck.” He drank again, eyes faintly haunted.

“Jeck was one of the foundry men, and indeed one of the first who had claimed to hear the unearthly noises, as he called them. They found him that day still at his station, first thing when the ironworks was opened up, as if he’d never left. Only thing was, they found him missing his head.”

Archerd’s eyes widened and his breath caught mid-sip. He’d heard of Jeck, everyone had, but the stories were so muddled it was all rumor and legend.

“Of course this was terrible, the more so as back then we had no constabulary to turn to, no inspectors to investigate, no guardsmen to call. All of that was to soon change, but for the moment, we’d had only ourselves. We sent messengers to summon the inspector and guards from Holdswaine but they’d be at least two weeks to call away for such an isolated incident in a fly-speck of a . . . You couldn’t even call it a town back then, not really. It was still more of a camp.”

“So there was Jeck, headless, and they couldn’t make heads nor tails of it, if you’ll pardon the expression, son.” Archerd blanched and gulped.

“I heard about it quickly, within the hour if I recall correctly. News traveled fast around town in those days, and Waldon made sure to get the word to me. We’d been in a spot of trouble before, he and I; I’m sure I’ve told you the tale already.

“They brought me in to make of it what I could, but for all my education, I am now and was then a man of science, not an inspector. I like to think I made a fair attempt, as the fundamentals of an investigation are remarkably similar, be they in a lab or a crime scene, but a true inspector is trained in many ways to know what sorts of things to look for, and I lack such training to this day.”

“I will spare you the worst details, but he was found in the middle of the floor, in a large clear area with no obvious equipment that might have moved or shifted and caused him injury. Of his head there was no sign, and indeed to this day we have never located it.

“What was located was the murder weapon — for yes, we did later learn it was an ugly circumstance of money owed that had done him in — and the circumstances of that discovery were worse even than that of Jeck himself.”

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

The moon crept up through the sky as though afraid of what it might disturb. The town slept fitfully, or most of it; the old Dolet manor still showed lights. The streets outside were quiet, not even animals roaming too far in the chill air of autumn.

The windows of the manor were shut tight against the cold and young master Archerd Dolet set a new fat log on the embers of the fire. As flame began to crackle around it, the light flashed off the round glasses he wore. He stared into the flames pensively.

Footsteps from behind roused him, and he turned, startled. “Father, you’re up late.”

“I could say the same, m’boy, and should.” Altman set his lighter down on a sturdy wooden end table. “You beat me to it. I was about to build up the flame myself. It’s going to be a cold one tonight.” Next, he sat himself down in a beautiful old overstuffed armchair. “Have a seat, son. Sit with me a while.”

Archerd did as he was bid automatically. He was a strong young man, 14 years of age with a slightly heavier build than his father. His features favored his mother, he had the same heart-shaped face. Of late though, he’d taken people aback with the intensity and curiosity of his gaze; in that, he’d definitely taken after Altman.

“Father, I’ve been wondering . . . Why do you always get so melancholy this time of year? I mean, I talked to mother and she said the two of you first met right at this time of year! Shouldn’t it make you happy?”

Altman smiled, a slightly twisted smile. “Oh yes, son. That much does make me happier than you can yet know, of course. It’s . . .”

Archerd held his breath for a moment, then prompted, “It’s . . .?”

“Well. You know of course your mother and I were instrumental in establishing this township and settling the whole of the valley and the lands around it.”

“Of course.” He could hardly forget it; he was forever Altman’s son, son of the founder, sometimes even son of the huntress. His father wasn’t the only revered figure in the family.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Time for a roundup of my work so far! I finished the first story, a piece I'm titling The Price of Demand. It's the second story in the book I'm working on for NaNoWriMo, but I started the first story before November so I won't be touching that one until December rolls around.

THE PRICE OF DEMAND

by Gordon S. McLeod

The tower rose to an imposing 15 meters, except
where it didn’t. The square stone structure
was surrounded by scaffolding, workmen climbing up and down a solid interior
staircase or being raised on crude lifts, hoisted by the power of their fellows
at the top.

Waldon Sias stood at the base of the tower,
huge arms wrenching a gear that wound a rope, raising several of the men in his
team higher to the unfinished portion of the tower’s top level.

“Oi,
here we are!” one of them called, and started unloading stone heavy stone
bricks onto the scaffolding while Sias tied the ropes off.

“I want
that southern wall built up by mid-day, mind!” His deep, gruff voice carried
the casual assurance that came from leading teams such as this for years. None
of his men would dare foul up this project; not here, not on his watch.

A shadow
to his right announced the arrival of another, and the quiet footfalls told him
who; Dolet. Altman Dolet was a young man, but several years before had come
into some money and had been eager to put it to use. Dolet was no woodsman or
tracker to move silently, but he was lightly built and tread softly out of
habit.

“Your
men are making good progress, I see.”

“Aye.
They’ll ‘ave the rest of ‘er up by sunfall, you can be sure of that. They know
they’ll be answerin’ to me if they don’t.”

Dolet
made no reply, instead pulling a pair of large leather and brass goggles down
over his eyes from where they’d rested on his head. He stood there, still and
silent, head canted up to inspect the work in detail. Waldon had a similar pair
himself, and knew they’d provide a fine view of the smallest details, even from
the far side of the large clearing; the lenses were stacked one in front of the
next 5 deep over each eye, with small levers on each side of the head allowing
individual adjustment or removal of each lens. An expensive set such as those
that Dolet wore would allow comfortable viewing at any range from 5 centimeters
to 5 kilometers, line of sight allowing.

“I’m
glad to hear of it. I’ll need you to begin working on the foundry in three
day’s time, and—” His words cut off as he started, stepping back involuntarily,
hands raising as if in protest.

Waldon’s
eyes snapped from him to the tower’s top, where a tall, over-stacked mass of
rock was teetering. The worker who’d called down to him caught sight of the
unstable pile from the corner of his eye and rushed to try and stabilize it,
but even Waldon’s unaided sight recognized the mis-step he took. He stumbled,
fell into the stack of bricks, and down, down they all came, landing in a
mangled heap not 3 meters from where they stood.

The
sounds of construction slowed and stopped, a hush falling until Waldon’s bellow
rang out, “Medic! Man down, north east tower site! MEDIC!”

A loud
commotion broke out then as men rushed to the scene, gathering and staring. The
man lay in a broken pile, but his chest rose and fell; he lived. His arm pumped
blood from not one, but three compound fractures. He had landed with his left
arm in the perfect position to have his elbow slammed downward by a heavy stone
brick while both fore— and lower arm were held up by others, and both the thick
bone of the forearm and the two of the lower arm shone white where their broken
ends had pierced flesh and skin.

He lay
silent, unconscious or so deeply in shock he had not felt the injury yet. Given
the height from which he’d fallen, it was a wonder he was alive at all, but
from the amount of blood pouring from his arm, Waldon wondered with dread
whether he’d stay that way for long.

The
foreman stepped back to clear the way for the arriving medics, men and women in
long, soft leather robes. The lead medic took one look at him and gestured for
her assistants forward with a stretcher, then stepped in to help them clear
bricks from his body.

As the
bricks came away, Walden saw the man had broken more than 3 bones. Several ribs
and one leg were the worst of the rest. His face grew ashen, and a hand dipped
into his pocket.

Dolet
stood stricken as they watched the medics cart the man away. Waldon pulled a
four-leafed clover from the pocket and slowly walked to the blood-stained pile
of bricks where the man had landed. He glanced once at Dolet the scientist; he
knew the man didn’t care for what he thought of as silly superstitions, but
they’d served him well in his life so far. He carefully placed the clover on
the spot and backed away. Dolet eyed him, but said nothing.

“Of all
the rotten, stinkin’ luck . . .”

“Accidents
happen, but this we really didn’t need. Let’s hope our luck improves.” Dolet
gazed down upon the four-leafed clover thoughtfully. “I have to get back to
other details. I’ll leave you to completing the tower.”

Waldon
shook himself out of his daze. “A’right men, back to it! And don’t let me catch
any ‘o you bein’ as careless as Claver there! If he thinks a rest in the
medics’ tent’s gonna save his sorry hide for long, he’s got a long, hard lesson
ahead! You, get tha’ . . .”

He lost
himself in the task of getting the men back to work. They had a schedule to
keep, and one less body to help keep it.

* * *

Altman
Dolet sat at his desk, head in his hands, pouring over settlement details. When
he’d first dreamed up the idea of putting together a town in this place, it had
seemed so simple. He’d live in his late Uncle’s ancestral home and put the word
out, and just like that, people would trickle in and buildings would rise and
in a few years, poof! A whole town would grow from the empty valley.

It
seemed like a lifetime ago, a naive dream. Naturally it was a lot more involved
than that. People needed a reason to move to a place. Reasons like safety.
Reasons like opportunity. He found himself juggling responsibilities tied to
giving people those reasons, like the guard tower that had so suddenly become a
thorn in the fledgling community’s side.

He
couldn’t even call it a community, not really. The whole population consisted
of himself, his wife Kaylene, some assorted staff and the work crew of 20 men
who truly lived in Holdswaine, Altman’s original home. They had temporary
barracks set up for housing while they worked on the town’s first buildings. He
hoped that in time, some of them might take a liking to the place and move
their families out permanently, though after today’s accident he wasn’t as
hopeful as he’d once been. It had not been the first accident, and after the
third had occurred the past week, whispers of bad luck had started circulating.

“Ridiculous!”
He sighed in frustration. “Nonsense superstition. Luck, indeed.” Altman had no
use for luck, good or bad. He firmly believed that one made one’s own luck. But
he also knew that the men believed in luck, and there was little to be gained
from openly challenging their convictions. He had to show them, instead.

It was
going to be expensive, but he didn’t see any choice in the matter. He had to be
very careful when it came to money. In truth, he had a vast fortune, more than
anyone but Kaylene suspected he had. But that fortune was the reason he was
building the town. It was known he had some money, but as far as anyone knew it
was money he’d inherited when he inherited his Uncle’s home, a family fortune.
In truth, the money came from several rich mineral deposits he had identified
upon his first arrival here.

His
uncle Eldrid Tremaine had summoned him upon his graduation, and intended to pass on the discovery to Altman,
but Altman had been an apt student of the science of minerals and recognized
the valley’s potential quickly. Betrayal at the hands of his erstwhile friend
Deman had convinced Altman that if he intended to take advantage of the
valley’s riches, he would need to keep the secret safe.

To that
end he had worked carefully and in secret over the last several years. He
traded in small quantities of rare minerals on visits to larger cities, and
encouraged the belief that the money had belonged to his Uncle.

He was
always careful never to trade too much at any one time, lest someone think to
wonder where he was getting it from. He had also found that trading smaller
quantities let him command higher prices, which worked to both his financial
and scientific advantage, as the value of the minerals to him lay primarily in
their varied applications, not their value at trade.

He set
brass quill to paper and began drafting a new work order. He had intended to
move slower, but if the area gained a reputation for bad luck it’d do him
little good.

“Another
accident.” Gentle hands fell on his shoulders, the left adorned with a shining
wedding band.

“Yes.
Even Waldon’s starting to lose his nerve. We’re going to have to move forward
faster than I’d like, I’m afraid.”

“If we
get a crew in to build the road now, it’ll sure lift spirits, but it will also
encourage traders and merchants to visit. What if someone learns of the
electrite deposits, or the others? Once word gets out . . .”

“I know,
my love. But we can’t afford to let this place gain a bad reputation. While it
would certainly help us keep the secret, we’d never be able to attract anyone
to mine the deposits, and I don’t intend to do it myself forever I can tell
you! We need the road in a hurry, we need forest cleared by the river, and we
need the river-way cleared to allow water-borne shipping up to the coast cities
in the north.”

“Of
course, but we’ve got to make sure that those who come in don’t find out about
the minerals! If the Conclave got wind of it, you know they’ll swoop in and claim it for themselves.” That was why
they needed the settlement. It was true that it would make the recovery of the
minerals far easier, not to mention the processing, but it was really for the
security.

They
were going to have to go public with the location of the resources sooner or
later. Altman intended to carefully control the how and when of it though.
Electrite was an incredibly rare mineral, incredibly valuable, and as a
student, he’d never had the opportunity to work with it. Samples were simply
too rare, too expensive, and too dangerous to waste on students.

He’d had
an instructor who had worked with it though, and who had shown him. Adept
Bateson had had plenty of experience with electrite, a powerfully radioactive
material with fantastic power potential. The burn scarring on his hands and
face had been all the warning the younger Altman had needed to treat it with a
healthy respect and caution.

“They
will, yes. We’ve done all we can on our own to protect it; the sites we know of
are all well disguised with run down, ‘abandoned’ buildings. I did see one
person wander closer than I’d have liked, but they never spared the area a
glance.”

There
were telltales for the mineral’s presence it would take a learned eye such as
Altman’s to spot. There were also far more obvious clues, such as dead and
stunted foliage in the immediate area around a deposit. Luckily the radiation
was only dangerous in a short radius around the mineral, at least in the short
term. Long-term continued exposure resulted in dead zones meters across; still
relatively short-range, but visible enough that attracting people to the valley
would inevitably cause attention to be drawn, questions to be raised.

It was a
very flimsy defense and wouldn’t stand up to any sort of scrutiny at all beyond
the most cursory, but that and obscurity were all they had.

“With
the luck we’ve had here lately, it’s just a matter of time before someone finds
it.”

“Not you
too! You know I don’t believe in luck, good or bad.”

“You may
not, husband, but they surely do, and I wish you’d learn to at least understand
that, if not accept it. It means we’ve got a problem either way. If luck
exists, it’s bound to run out at some point. Even if it doesn’t, they believe
it and will get spooked if things like this keep happening.”

There
was little he could say to that, and they retired to the house for supper.

The old
house that uncle Tremaine had left them was large, and they’d given over a wing
of it to the medics. Usually it was unoccupied save for that small group. There
really was just the one medic, with an apprentice and two assistants, and now
the poor unfortunate Claver, who was badly injured and being kept close to
help. After dinner, the couple stopped in to check on his injuries. The medic
met them at the door to the wing. She was a stout, older woman in her healer’s
leathers.

“How is
he doing?” Kaylene’s voice was concerned, but betrayed no anxiousness.

“He’s
bad off now, but he’ll live, right enough. That arm, though . . .” The medic’s
face looked bleak. “I’ve got the bones set, but that was a right nasty piece of
work. Muscles are all torn up. If I c’n keep infection at bay, he’ll keep the
arm. Whether it’ll work right again, though, well it’s just too early to say.”

“Can we
see him?” Altman’s voice was a bit gruff; he couldn’t help feeling a guilty
pang. It’d been many hours since the accident and his only thoughts of it so
far had been of how it impacted him and his plans. When had he become so cold?

“No
point. I ‘ave him on the poppiate. He’ll be out till afternoon tomorrow if not
later. I’ll let ‘im know you came by though; I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

They
nodded farewells and the medic disappeared inside the makeshift hospital ward.

“I hope
our luck turns soon.”

Kaylene
raised an eyebrow, but smiled slightly as they walked back to their rooms.
“Apparently, anything can happen.”

The
smile was wiped away when they entered their bedroom. There in the center of
the bed was a wooden tray he didn’t recognize, and on the tray was a sizable
sample of a bluish ore Altman recognized all too well.

Unprocessed
electrite.

* * *

The next morning Altman found himself
inspecting the tower once more. It had been completed the day before, mortar
and heavy stone bricks laid to perfection all the way up on all sides. It was a
reassuring sight, even absent the armsmen Altman intended to hire to man it.
For now it served a dual purpose, both as a watch point and as a beacon to
those who saw it, saying “We’re serious about safety.”Tell that to Claver, he thought. There was still blood visible on
the ground.

He was
watchful as he inspected the site, keeping his eyes on the milling workers as
they moved their operation to the next build site. Someone had moved that ore into his home, his very bedchamber.
Someone knew what he was up to, what he was protecting. Someone had sent him a
message.

He’d
been startled out of his wits last night, and Kaylene had to talk him down from
charging out in a rush to confront . . . who knew who? “Whoever did this is
obviously keeping it quiet, too, or they’d have confronted us in public, or
worse, gone off to sell their knowledge in the cities, maybe to the Conclave.
We need to find out what they’re up to, what they want from us. They must want
SOMETHING.” Kaylene had been adamant, and he knew she was right.

There
was nothing around the tower he could spot that screamed of sabotage to him,
but then the accident had happened high up where the walls had been unfinished,
and he was no trained inspector. “I’m likely just leaping to conclusions, and I
should know better. Just a little unsettled, that’s all. A fall from a wall is
a much stronger message than a tray of ore on a bed, so the fall probably
wasn’t a message at all. Was it?”

Footsteps
sounded behind him. “Yer not the first I’ve heard muttering to himself today,
y’aren’t. Nobody’s feelin’ right after yesterday. But the tower’s up, right
enough.” Waldon Sias.

Altman
nodded. “And a fine job, Sias. I see your men have been quick on their feet;
the scaffolding’s all down already? Everything packed up and moved to the new
market site?”

“It is,
aye. They didn’t want to linger by the tower more’n they had to. Can’t say as I
blame ‘em. Work’s likely to progress fast now, but not for the reasons I’m
lookin’ for.”

“No,
that’d only make things worse. If they work so fast that they start having
accidents as a result, they’ll only make all this talk of so-called ‘bad luck’
worse.”

Sias’
face darkened a shade; Alton cursed himself for his poorly-chosen words. “Don’t
you worry about it,” he said, a touch stiffly. “I’ll see that it gets done fast
and safe.”

Altman
watched him leave, then turned to follow. The market was to be a quick build,
little more than a cleared space with some pre-built stalls to allow merchants
a place to set their wares for sale. Only a few of Waldon’s men would be
working on that; the rest he’d have building the road.

When he
arrived at the market, really only a few steps away, three large, very heavily
muscled men were digging out a patch of earth a good 20 meters across. Stacks
of stone bricks similar to those used for the tower were scattered around the
perimeter. Within a few days the area would be stone-paved and smooth.

Three
men worked at the ground, the bulk of it dug out. One man worked at removing
hard-packed earth from the far side while two more compacted the earth with
heavy tools. All three ignored him. The two nearer ones, turned to Waldon as he
approached with the day’s instructions.

He felt
exposed somehow, almost awkward, but knew he had to stay with the daily
inspection routine. Whoever had left him the message could be watching for the
effect of his revelation. There was no sense in giving anything away before he
had to.

It was
amazing, he thought, how little it took to completely change the feel of a
place. The valley had started as a haven, a land of promise and scientific
exploration, of wonders. It had become a land of bad luck for some; for Kaylene
and himself, a land of shadows where an opportunistic mystery agent lurked,
ready to expose them or blackmail them or who really knew what.

The
trick, he decided, was figuring out how to nudge things just enough to get
things back on track to the wonderful promise he’d started with.

“Let’s
be off then. I’ll show you what we’ve got for a road.” Waldon’s voice was less
cold, but there was a tightness of the expression there that said Altman’s
problems were getting worse.

The road
was little more than a faint trail and a promise. It was to be carved out of
the woods in stages. First would come the leg out to the Holdswaine road and
the merchant trade that would bring. Once that was complete, they’d turn to the
other direction and build out along the river to the deeper waters where docks
could be built and water trade could begin; those docks were the third stage.
Once the docks were built, unused wood obtained in the building of the road
would be simple to ship elsewhere for trade.

Waldon
slowed; Alton, trailing behind, had to stop abruptly to avoid walking right
into him. He stepped aside and frowned. A group of 5 of Waldon’s men were
gathered around a 6th, pale but upright, clutching his arm.

“What’s
this about? Why’re you all standin’ around? All the trees are marked, are
they?”

“It’s
Baines, Sias. Cut his arm deep while markin’ the tree.” In roadwork, they had
to mark the path the road was to take. They did this by making a thin wedge cut
at the base of each tree that was to be removed. “Says his hatchet slipped.”

Baines
was a bit smaller than some of the other men, which was to say he only
out-massed Altman by most of his bodyweight again instead of fully double it.
His face could’ve been carved from granite for a gargoyle, and wore the
workmen’s rough-woven, dark-dyed clothing. He looked up at Altman, pain in his
eyes. Altman could’ve sworn there was a flash of something there though. Not
recognition; they’d all been there long enough to have seen him around.
Whatever it was, it was something ugly. He shivered in spite of himself.

Waldon
pushed his way through and Alton followed. Baines’ arm was very bloody, but
even to his untrained eye it didn’t look particularly deep or serious. There
was no shortage of dark looks directed his way; he schooled his features to
cool, serious concern. It helped that the looks inspired a flare of genuine
irritation.

“Get ‘im
to the medics’ wing, Mitchell. The rest ‘o you can get to it, and do it like I
told you this time! I’ll ‘ave no careless accidents on my watch or there’ll be
hell to pay.” Waldon turned, examining the tree; Alton saw his hand twitch
toward a pocket, but he seemed to hold himself back, turning resolutely away.

“Mr.
Dolet, we’ll cut the review short today I think, under th’ circumstances and
all. I’ll work on this myself and make sure nothin’ more serious happens.”

“Of
course. Thank you, Waldon. I’ll check on Baines and see if Claver’s improved at
all.”

Mind a
whirl, the walk back to the house seemed to take far longer than it really was.
He really hadn’t liked the look on Baines’ face.

There
was no warning. One moment Altman was climbing the short flight of steps to the
front door of the house, and the next moment found the world a blur of pain and
hazy mist.

After
what felt like several weeks he managed to get his eyes open, though he
couldn’t quite bring them into focus. He was lying down, of that he was fairly
sure. It felt like a bed, with some sort of cover on it. The room walls, what
he could see of them, were too light a color to be his bedchamber; Kaylene had
had dark wood paneling installed shortly after they married. The medics’ wing
then.

He
shifted his arm, or tried — the movement caused his head to explode into bright
whorls and spots of brilliant color and even more brilliant, blinding pain that
quickly faded to black.

An
indeterminate amount of time later he faded back into consciousness again. This
time he could see a bit better; he was in the medics’ wing, as he’d suspected.
This time there was a hazy shape at his side; he thought it might be Kaylene.
There was a gasp as she recognized his awakening.

He
shifted his eyes in her direction; definitely Kaylene. He didn’t try to move
his head, mindful of what had happened last time he moved anything.

His wife
laid a hand on his shoulder; he winced inward, but there was only the faint
twinge of pain in answer. He’d been unconscious for some time, he guessed. Then
he noticed the lead medic in the room; Cranford, her name was. He couldn’t
recall her first name, and hoped that was due to whatever had happened to him.

He
brought his focus back onto Medic Cranford. She was in her middle years, stout
and strong, still slim of figure. She moved with purpose and stood next to
Kaylene by his side. She was speaking, though it took him a moment to sort out
her words.

“. . .
his head. He’ll be fine now, though it was a nasty hit and he’ll be feelin’ it
for some weeks I imagine.”

He had
no doubt she was right; his head hurt fit to burst, and his stomach churned as
he willed it to quiet. “How long?” he tried to ask. What he heard was little
more than an incoherent slur.

“How
long?” he tried again. This time the words were recognizable. Kaylene’s eyes
had widened at his slurred speech, but Cranford seemed to take it in stride.

“You’ve
been out the better part of a day, and scared me with it y’did too. That was a
nasty crack on the head. Found you myself, lyin’ sprawled out on the steps
right by the door, bleedin’ something fierce an’ a big stone fallen right from
the roof beside you. Turns out the cut was worse than it looked, but y’got a
good crack on the skull. It ain’t broke, mind you, but you’ll be feelin’ like
it did for a while.”

“It’s a
good thing you’re so hard-headed, Altman. Never thought I’d have to admit to it
bein’ a good thing, mind!” Kaylene smiled reassuringly. “We’ll have you out of
here in no time.” Her eyes, chestnut brown in a heart-shaped face, warmed him
and soothed away the pain.

“She’s
right, Mr. Dolet. You’re in better shape than poor Claver. Oh don’t be so
worried,” she exclaimed, seeing his eyes widen. “He’s recoverin’ fine so far,
and we’ve kept his arm free of infection. But he’ll be long in the healing, as
we discussed the other day.” Her voice dropped low as she said the last,
casting a significant glance at the far side of the room where Claver lay. His
arm was immobilized, held fast with a series of strong, thin brass rods wrapped
tight to upper- and fore-arm with wide leather belts to prevent movement. He
looked to be asleep, or unconscious.

“And
Mitchell?”

“He was
fine. Just a li’l cut on ‘is arm is all. Painful mind you, he won’t be cuttin’
any trees any time soon I’m afraid, but no permanent harm.”

Three
accidents in two days, two serious and one hardly worth mentioning. And the
message. He’d almost forgotten the message; his head was still a little woozy.
An ugly suspicion began to take shape in his mind then, and he closed his eyes.
“Claver, is he awake? Can I talk to him?”

“’Fraid
not, Mr. Dolet. He’s in a lot of pain so I’m keepin’ him on the poppiate.”
Derived from poppy flowers, poppiate was a very effective — and popular —
painkiller that in large doses was a powerful sedative as well.

“And
Waldon, then? When can I go? I must speak with him.”

“You can
go now if you must, though I’d rather you stayed. You ain’t gonna do that
though, are you.” It wansn’t a question.

“No, I’m
afraid not. Dearest, with your help...?”

Kaylene
shot him a glance and took hold of his arm. “I’ll help you up and get you
moving, but only to take you back to your own bed. If you need to talk to Mr. Sias,
I’ll bring him to you!”

“That .
. . that would be a relief.” His stomach was doing somersaults within him and
he felt he must be showing a spectacular shade of green on his face. “But first
I’d like to examine the stone that fell and hit me. Is it still where it
landed?”

“The
stone? Yes, it was there last I saw it. What of it? I told you when we moved in
that roof was in need of repair.” There was some heat in that last.

They
passed through the central hall and out the doors into the fresh air; it did
wonders to clear his head. The stone lay near the top of the staircase in a
small pool of dried blood.

He
sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. He knew stones well; any geoscientist
worth his salt would. He knew their composition and colors, their wear patterns
and the effects of tools upon them. He knew their cuts and cracks. And he knew
this was no stone from their house; it was too new, too unmarked by the
elements. This was a stone from the tower construction site.

Someone
had dropped it on him intentionally.

* * *

After some heated debate, Kaylene and Altman
stood near the scene of Mitchell’s
cutting accident. There was no sign of Waldon or his workers. “The sun is high; they may have stopped to wait
out the heat and take lunch?” It was hot, even in the shade of the trees.

“Likely.”
It was indeed likely, but Altman still had a bad feeling that had nothing to do
with his injury.

“Indeed
they are.” The voice, male and gruff, came from behind. “Mr. Dolet, I’m
delighted to see you up and about.”

Kaylene
whirled around; Altman turned more slowly. The figure was large, though not so
large as most of the workers Sias had hired. He was clothed as they were, save
a large dressing on his left arm. “Ahh. Mr. Mitchell. I should have guessed. I
got the message you left . . . both of them, in fact.”

“You
monster! You set that up? You could have killed him!” Kaylene felt like she
wanted to rush forward and crush him herself, but Altman was leaning too
heavily on her shoulder.

“Come
now, it was little more than a demonstration of . . . bad luck.” Mitchell
seemed unphased by Kaylene’s anger. He almost seemed to take satisfaction in
it.

“Why?
What do you stand to gain? What do you hope to accomplish?” There was something
tugging at a corner of his mind, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.

“I
simply thought you’d be easier to deal with in the absence of your work crew,
of course. I have a business proposition for you, Mr. Dolet, and it is not for
the ears of others.” He radiated supreme self-confidence. “Your lady-wife is
free to stay, of course.”

She
nearly did break away from him then, and he found he had to hang on to her before
she subsided.

“You
have some nerve Mitchell,” she growled.

“Indeed
you do. I’m afraid I’ve very little interest in doing any sort of business with
unknown men who start their bids with crude traps and attempted murder.”

“Unknown
men? I am insulted! Why, Mr. Dolet, we have done business before.”

Altman
looked closer; the tugging at the corner of his mind grew more insistent. He
did look familiar, though the clothes were wrong, the manner, and — the face!
He wore a short trimmed beard now, with the mustache shaved off. Take the beard
away and . . . Yes, he was the spitting image of his last electrite client.

The
pieces clicked and clattered in Altman’s head, tumblers falling one by one into
place. “Of course. You’ve changed; you were so much better dressed the last
time we met. I like the beard, it’s a nice touch.”

Mitchell
nodded with a sardonic smile and Altman began to pace up and down what would
soon be the road. “May I assume you’re dissatisfied with the quality of the
electrite? Feeling overburdened by the safe handling and storage of it? You’ve
come for a refund?” He didn’t buy it for a second of course, but he wanted to
keep Mitchell from leaving, or from doing anything rash. With just a little luck, he thought, mouth twisting at the irony.

“Mr.
Dolet, please. You’re brighter than that. You know as well as I do that I want
more. A lot more, in fact.” His words were pleasant and his mouth was smiling,
but his eyes were cold.

“And you
expect me to give it to you, just like that.”

“Yes, I
do.” The voice had followed the eyes; flat and cold. Now we’re coming to it. “And as to your next question, no, I won’t
be satisfied with more samples, Mr. Dolet. I want it all. I want to know where you get it from.”

Altman
froze and tried very, very hard not to let his shock show on his face. Kaylene
openly gaped, but thankfully Altman’s pacing had taken him to Mitchell’s far
side and he wasn’t facing her. He didn’t
know! He was standing less than 500 meters from a potential mother-lode and he had no idea!

He
cleared his throat. “That’s a pretty big request, Mr. Mitchell.”

“You
misunderstand. It’s not a request. It’s a demand, and I’ll have it met.” His
dark eyes were ice as he spoke, his posture threatening. It would have been
intimidating but for the faint but familiar sound of footsteps coming around
the path from the clearing. Waldon Sias and his men.

“You
seem confident, yet here you stand, unarmed, and you’ve given no reason why I
should—”

Mitchell
dipped a hand into a pocket then, and Altman found himself facing a tiny pistol
that looked no less deadly for its size. Kaylene dropped into a half-crouch, an
odd sight with her long dress. The look on her face as her eyes focused in on
Mitchell would’ve kept the strongest man from laughing.

“This
should do for the moment, Altman. You don’t mind if I call you Altman, do you?
As for the longer term, it would be unfortunate, don’t you think, if the
Conclave were to learn of your little enterprise?” Sias’ footsteps were a bit
louder now but still too distant for him to be of any help, and neither he nor
his men would be armed.

Altman
frowned. He’d half expected the Conclave threat; they were the highest
scientific order in the land, and held a monopoly over most vital resources.
That included the one other large source of electrite known, and all but the
smallest other known sources as well. They wouldn’t be happy to learn of a
source of this magnitude less than a week’s journey from their citadel in Holdswaine
if it were already claimed, and worse, Altman had not yet legally claimed it as
that would have drawn the Conclave’s attention firmly onto him. Mitchell might
not know the source was right here, but with the Conclave actively
investigating, they’d find it in no time.

“The
Conclave’s attention would be unfortunate, yes, but that’s as true for you as
it is for me. You could tell them,
but you’d never see another scrap of electrite from my source if you did.”

Kaylene
was moving now, whisper-quiet, holding the hem of her long dress inches above
the ground so it wouldn’t betray her by dragging over leaves or rocks. Altman
held his breath. Mitchell seemed to have forgotten she was there.

“You
needn’t worry about my dealings with the Conclave; let me worry about—” And
that was as far as he got with that thought as Kaylene tackled him from behind.
Her arm crushed round his throat, choking him, while the other grabbed his gun
arm, swung it to point harmlessly into the treetops above. A jerking motion
caused him to let out a strangled cry and the pistol flew from his fingers to
land against a rock on the ground. It fired, a sharp, cracking report that
scared off every bird in the canopy.

Altman
rushed forward as Mitchell pitched forward and Kaylene pinned him to the
ground. The faint, distant footsteps became the pounding of many running feet.
Seconds later Waldon Sias burst onto the scene, followed by a good half dozen
of his men. Mitchell, red-faced with rage, growled out “Get them!”

In less
time than Altman could process, 2 of the workers accompanying Waldon had pulled
pistols of their own, larger than Mitchell’s had been. They stepped back out of
the group and spread to either side of them. Everyone froze, Waldon and his men
too shocked to do more than stare in disbelief and growing anger at supposed
friends.

Mitchell
spat out a mouthful of dirt. “You couldn’t be so stupid as to think I was here alone? Now, release me!”

Kaylene
reluctantly backed off; Mitchell rubbed his jaw and awkwardly got to his feet.
“And now Mr. Dolet. I will have that
location, or people will start dying, not just having . . . accidents.”

“Accidents?”
Waldon’s face had turned a deep red at the words. His voice could have come
from the darkest of storm clouds in the sky. His remaining men’s faces had
darkened dangerously.

“Keep
your eyes on them.” Mitchell spared Sias a contemptuous glance and grabbed his
fallen pistol before returning his gaze to Altman. “So what is it? You’re in an
awful hurry to build the road and get the docks and market up. Is it a
merchant, then? I’ll have the name, or—”

Waldon
Sias chose that moment to decide he’d had enough. One huge arm rocketed out,
catching the nearest traitorous workman square on the jaw. He was a huge man
himself, but Waldon’s blow felled him like a tree. Taking their cue from their
leader, the four workmen turned their attention to the second gunman. He
quickly fell under a few well-placed blows without a shot fired.

Mitchell
growled and shifted his pistol’s aim straight at Waldon. Altman didn’t think,
he just reacted, taking several quick running steps to the side. Kaylene’s eyes
widened and mouth opened in a shout, or a scream. Mitchell’s gun sounded far
louder this time as it went off, Altman’s shoulder exploded in pain, and the
ground twisted itself up to slam into his head.

A few
moments later, after the world failed to dissolve around him, he felt hands
helping him up. Mitchell was . . . was . . . “Wh . . . Where’d he go? Can’t let
him . . .”

“Don’t
you worry none about him, Mr. Dolet.” Waldon’s voice was hard, but as
reassuring as the arm he had supporting his uninjured shoulder. “We gotta get
you back to the medics again. Mitchell ain’t gonna be a problem, believe me. My
boys don’t take too kindly to people playin’ with their work like that, let
alone their lives. They’ll see to it he don’t try anythin’ else.”

Altman
thought about that just long enough to decide it was probably better not to
think about it too hard. “Good.”

With
Kaylene on one side and Waldon on the other, he retraced his steps back to the
medic’s wing of the house, stopping just outside the doors. It was the spot on
which Altman had been struck by the stone.

“Altman.”
Waldon looked very pale; Altman saw a dark, glistening patch on his shirt. The
stain spread over a good part of his body. “I heard some of what Mitchell was
goin’ on about. You got somethin’ to hide here.”

Altman
nodded slowly. “Yes. There’s not much point in denying it, is there?”

“Nope.
Just wanted to say you don’t have to worry ‘bout my boys ‘n me. We don’t know
much, and what we do know, we’ll help you protect. Most men . . . They’d expect
a man in his pay to take a bullet, not risk ‘imself like you did. You tell us
what needs doin’, we’ll see it done.”

“So, my
dear, you learn to relate to the men in your employ at last. There’s hope you
yet!” Kaylene opened the doors, and the three disappeared inside.